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Wednesday, October 18, 2006
I Am Just a Prisoner Here, Of My Own Device

I am trying to keep myself occupied. That is the easiest way to trick your mind into not thinking. If you give yourself enough tasks to send it spinning, you will have no time for your thoughts to sink in or to think about what could have been. And once I do not think about it long enough, I will forget.

I turned around and walked away the moment I got off the bus and the destination was over. Three seconds later, I turned around and watched him walk away. I quickly reached for my mobile and so I typed, “I promise I will not cry. I feel that I had died again and again for something that I can avoid.” Hold, just hold it all in, I thought to myself.

I soon found PY and I got back into what I was doing for one whole weekend – shopping. I bought a rather pretty black dress from Salabianca, thus further bursting the already burst budget for this month. There are just some things that retail therapy can cure. And then there are things that you can never heal. Maybe you can heal if you allow yourself to forget. But if you forget, how are you going to write? Where will you draw your pain from and where will your inspiration flow?

“What do you need in your life?” he asked.

I paused to think for a second. Then I paused to think for a second longer. I could not think of anything significant. Until and unless I consider him a need, then I guess I do not really NEED anything. Because I am quite happy with all that I have. Come to think of it, I must be a rather easy person to please. But oh no, I need to torture myself a little. Pick at the emotional scab so the wound will stay fresh, so I can write another story another day. Beauty is always conceived in pain, be it emotional, mental or physical.

“See? You have everything and so you lack nothing in life.” He laughed gently, licking the small white piece of paper.

“Do you know why people laugh? Like in sms-es, why do people place ‘haha’ at the end of their sentences? The boys and I were talking about this and boy, there were a lot of theories regarding this topic.

“I wrote somewhere in ANNN that we laugh to make things feel normal again, to make things feel right again.”

“Precisely.” He smiled, then exhaling. I followed the trail of smoke as it disappeared into the ceiling again.

On the topic of growing up and growing old, we were checking each other out. I asked him to smile. He looked older, with fine lines running at the corners of his eyes. I turned to my left a little and smiled, so he could see my wrinkle lines too. He denied that I looked older and I believed him because it was more fun to do so.

I looked intently at him and saw his receeding hairline. I laughed, pointing my right index finger at him. Perhaps even gently feeling his hairline that used to be a little closer to his brows.

“Eh your hairline is receding, wei…” I said.

“Ya lah, ya lah.”

I don’t think he likes being reminded that we are getting old. That is what time and age does to you. No one can escape growing up. Not even those who hide in the shadows.

Oh god, I promised myself that I would not write anymore about him. No more, no more, no more. But what can I write if my muse is dead? If there is one thing to learn from this whole trip, what would it be? Otto, you can do this. What would be the lesson that I should take along with me once the bus ride is over and I have to return to the point where I started.

Oh yes, about being a woman, about love and being loved. This story is so common that we no longer attach any emotions to it. There is just something about being a woman and wanting to feel a sense of tragedy. Maybe womenfolk could live happier if we could learn to love ourselves a little more and take care of our own hearts first, above others. Instead we enjoy the extra drama we can squeeze out of our twenty four seven.

I stared at my mobile and I talked to myself. Why can’t you just be with someone that who is eager and excited to see you? Why should you belittle yourself by wanting something that does not want you? It sounds absolutely absurd but then it made sense. Life is only beautiful when there is a small amount of tragedy and pain. And this destination that I go to every now and then is my very weakness and my muse.

Some artists physically hurt themselves, so they can get their juices flowing. How many singers and actors do you know that do a line or two so that they can catch a bus ride to Ecstasy? Maybe for me, it shall be my muse. Look at it this way - my addiction can be either him or cocaine or a bottle of vodka a day. I think he is the healthiest option. I just want to write a book and the journey I take to a future destination will be the words.

“I am sorry for all the broken promises.”

I wanted to tell him that he did not owe me a thing. I am a prisoner here, of my device. It was I who created this dingy world I wake up to each morning and it is I who can set myself free at the end of the day. Everything around me, I have painted it in shades that I so please. I can leave if I wanted to but I chose to stay so I could feel the pain for yet another stale day. Perhaps to punish myself for all the bad things I have done in my life. Maybe this is the payback for all the men who cried at 5 a.m.

I did not tell him the other day when we were together but I am writing this now. If you are reading this, then know that you do not owe me anything and you do not need to feel bad. I do not need your pity. All I wanted was sincerity and from the very beginning, that was something that you gave me. So do not apologize and do not say you are sorry. There is nothing to be sorry for because you are my muse. I created you in my mind and I gave you life. I am fucking going to write this book and I am going to immortalise the lives of a young woman and the men surrounding her life. And when the time comes, you can’t ask for royalties.

All right everyone. Now is the moment I laugh.

Her mind is tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes Benz.
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends.
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.

Related Links
  • I wrote This Ride while sitting in PY's car on my way home. That's what the muse does best. He gets my creative juices flowin'.



You can check out anytime you like ... but you can never leave. Hehe ...

12:27 pm  

I had the song looped for days and days and days... seemed so appropriate to feel miserable with it... hehehehe...

11:32 am  

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